onward

It is now Friday, 10 days post-election. I have come to this page several times to jot notes, but I've been unable to draw my thoughts to cohesion. Tonight I will post come hell or high water--and I'll say the past 10 days have felt like both.

I made a commitment to blog through THIS on Oct. 27 as we were headed into the final days of the campaign. THIS has not turned out to be a Harris win followed by god knows what. Instead, THIS is day after day of watching a slow-motion train wreck. 

Here goes:

On the morning after the election, I told my husband Dan I was gutted, maybe I should call in sick. If I ever questioned the mental-physical health connection, my doubt was wiped clean on Wednesday. My heart was a heavy lump in my chest. My bones cried. My thoughts and my body were one in pain.

I was determined to just get through the day. And the next. And the next week. And the next four years. And then...it won't be a lot longer until I die.

Sheesh.

Let's just say I (you too?) visited some dark places.

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I survived Wednesday with blinders on. I stared straight ahead, doing the next thing in front of me, which was teaching. Then when the bell rang between classes, lightning shot through my stomach as I remembered the election. 

I am grateful to have a job that consumes me. Once in the flow, I have no space for thoughts of...tyranny? authoritarianism? the demise of democracy?

In the stages of grief, Wednesday was numbed denial.

It was also on Wednesday that Dan checked the messages on our landline (which we check only about every two months...) Turns out our neighbors had left a message that yes, they would post a Harris sign in their yard. 

It wouldn't have made a difference, I know. But I appreciated the solidarity.

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On Thursday I awoke feeling better. On a scale of 1-10, I went from -3 to a solid 1. I could face the day. 

It was later on Thursday that I learned a student had, the day before, come to school wearing a Trump flag wrapped around his shoulders. I've been told that during at least one class he affixed the flag to the white board at the front of the room. The teacher was absent, but the substitute both allowed the student to post the flag and also addressed the class with comments supporting Trump and disparaging those who did not support Trump. The fallout of the episode is still up in the air.

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I was about 13 when Watergate unfolded. I remember feeling a surge of patriotic pride when Nixon resigned and our country said "no" to insidious attempts to sway elections. That time now looks benign. We did not know what we did not know.

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I scheduled an appointment in Des Moines for Friday. I've been in need of a new breast prosthesis (19 years out from my cancer diagnosis now), so I harnessed my blue mood and scheduled a fitting, then headed to the city for a day of soft quiet and pretty lingerie. 

On the drive over and back I listened to In Cold Blood on audiobook. Not your general cheer-me-up fare, but it's a book my AP Lit kids are reading, and it took my mind off the whirlpool of dread that sucks me down if I let my thoughts roam untethered.

In Des Moines, I bought lacy bras and then ate lunch at Thai Flavors, as my sister had suggested. I sat in the warm sun and read a book (Distant Sons, the All-Iowa Reads choice by Tim Johnston *****). Again, not your feel-good story, but consuming, and I needed to be consumed.

So I'd say Friday was another day of denial. I avoided the news. I avoided social media. I drew my focus into a very small space called me.

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On Saturday I hosted a neighborhood coffee. Since my son moved into our old house a half mile down the road in August, I've intended to introduce my daughter-in-law to the other young mom across the section. 

This past Saturday, I needed to take a positive action. I needed some joy. A three-generation coffee (with accordion music!) was the ticket. 

But the next day: Dan was crabby. Our gravel roads were muddy. It was Sunday, always a blue day.

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Sunday night was rough. My 9th-grade students are beginning to read Animal Farm, and I read the opening chapters before trying to sleep. 

I'm ashamed to admit how many years I've taught this book with insouciant confidence it was a cautionary tale for others--not for the United States of America. 

This time, each line stabs.

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Monday...Tuesday....Wednesday....Thursday....

This week has found me moving out of paralysis and into dismay.

The Onion itself could not have selected Trump's advisors. 

For now, Friday, Nov. 15, let me say I feel ragged. 

Enough.

Be well, if you can.

Allison

ohmyohmy - my unposted post from election night

It's 7:39 p.m. as I start this post.

p  e  n  n  s  y  l  v  a  n  i  a

Dan and I are watching CNN, reading tea leaves and bird formations.

Pundits are parsing approval ratings of Biden, then pivoting to North Virginia, Michigan, and again to  

p  e  n  n  s  y  l  v  a  n  i  a.

I feel like I'm watching a slow-motion movie with manic voice-over. 

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Now Phoenix. Maricopa County, to be exact. (But only the early voting results...)

Still long lines.

Mesa Community College...

Mesa Community College! - Like Proust's Madeline cookie, Mesa takes me back to Diana, my high-school friend who headed to Mesa after our 1978 graduation, eager to shake off (I can only surmise-- Aren't we all trying to shake something off after graduation?) her Ft. Dodge stomping ground. Who did she vote for? Who do we know?

--Time out-- 

It's now 8 p.m. and a new batch of election results are pouring in.

Oh. North Carolina, home of my sweet grandbaby Roger, hang in there.

I want to see Iowa. I've been overly hopeful since the Ann Seltzer poll was released over the weekend.

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It's 8:22 p.m.

We are seeing more projections.

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That was my last notation of the night. I stopped watching and went to bed.

Enough.

The Next 48 Hours

 

Thanks, Katie Howland.

Last night my sister made a batch of Pakistan goulash, a favorite food from our childhood. She said she plans to eat this cheesy comfort casserole for the next three days.

I'm buffering myself in a Harris-blue shirt (today) and a new (Harris-blue) blouse and patterned slacks tomorrow. I'm ready to wear my Harris-blue RAYGUN "Books Build Better Brains" T-shirt on Wednesday.

I'm also giving myself, my students, and those around me all the grace I can muster.

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We are tense. 

This feels like applying for a new job: We have to convince ourselves the work and effort are WORTH it, while simultaneously reminding ourselves that if we lose, we'll be okay.

Or will we? 

Serve me up some of that Pakistan goulash.

Enough.
Be well.
Write.

Allison

It's Not Over

We know it won't be over on Tuesday. 

This from Reuters :

Nov 1 (Reuters) - Democrats are readying a rapid-fire response to flood social media and the airwaves with calls for calm and patience with vote-counting should Donald Trump try to prematurely claim election victory, as he did in 2020, Harris campaign and party officials told Reuters...

It has been eight years since a presidential candidate has delivered a conceding phone call to the winner and a concession speech to the nation, modeling for the free world what Democracy looks like. Hillary Clinton, despite winning the popular vote by almost 3 million, called Donald Trump :

"I congratulated Trump and offered to do anything I could to make sure the transition was smooth," she wrote. "It was all perfectly nice and weirdly ordinary, like calling a neighbor to say you can't make it to his barbecue. It was mercifully brief ...."

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Four years later, the tradition of conceding an election was jettisoned when Trump not only refused to make "the phone call" and "the speech," he also refused to attend Biden's inauguration or assist in the peaceful transfer of power. 

You all know this. 

But think of our first-time voters. They were in the fifth grade in 2016. They likely don't remember watching the Obamas, with utmost grace, welcome the Trumps to the White House in January 2017. Watch it here, but you might want to have Kleenex handy.

Our youngest voters have grown up seeing a good chunk of America decry its democratic principles during elections. To them, our elections do not come with calm assurance that this nation can move forward, guided by Lincoln's better angels of our nature.

I don't think Trump will concede a loss tomorrow night without months of fractious, litigious post-election disruption. He has already told us what he will do if he wins--which frightens me even more.

Regardless of the outcome of the vote, nothing will be over for some time to come.

Peace be with you.

Allison 

A Golden Ball

A gold mirrored disco ball hangs in the center of my classroom. It is there to remind students that we are in a place where we are kind to all, welcoming, forgiving, and patient. The expectation is civility, and students get it. 

This doesn't mean we never hear an insult or see rudeness. But such behaviors are the exception. Students even admonish each other: "Look at the golden ball!" which is a happy way of getting us back on track.

It's taken me years to hone an effective classroom management style, and besides my selfish preference to work in a peaceful space, there is a pedagogical reason for my attention to decorum. You see, when students feel safe from ridicule, they are more likely to share their opinions, try new learning, and explore their creative selves. 

This is also why civilizations have developed expectations for public interactions. We (generally) do not accost one another in the grocery store or at work or in the library-- We agree to behaviors that allow us to go about our business with some confidence and security.

Which brings me to Saturday, Nov. 2, 2024.

In the preceding 72 hours (not to mention the preceding 72 months) our news cycle roiled with "he saids--" and "she saids--" There no longer seems to be a basement to abasement. 

We've heard "comedians" riffing on ethnicity and gender; news anchors excusing racism; "serious" politicians condoning violent rhetoric; we've even seen a candidate for president miming a sex act.

The current atmosphere of public political exchange is the polar opposite of what I work to create in my classroom, where ideas are expressed with supporting evidence, with respect to people with opposing views, and with adherence to social norms.

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It used to be teachers taught students the civility they needed to function as adults in the world beyond the schoolhouse gates.

Now it seems we have turned this model on its head. I am preparing my students for a civilized public sphere that no longer exists. There is no golden ball.

Enough.
Enough.
Enough.

Allison

Family Matters

This afternoon one of my sisters sent me an unsolicited text, asking me to explain how farmers, teachers, and rural Iowans could possibly vote for Trump, given his history (and promise) of tariffs. The last line of her text read "What is the thinking of the men who seldom talk, but vote Republican?"

This sister and I share space on the same end of the political spectrum, yet she riles me with such messages. (This is not her first.) It seems as if she wants me to explain--and justify--tariffs and subsidies and all things agri-politcal.

Her line about "men who seldom talk" is code for my husband Dan, a reserved man who--until 2016--voted Republican. 

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Two weeks ago I sent a text to Dan's brother, asking if we could post a Harris sign at the mailbox of his property. He lives out of state and is on his Iowa farm a few days a month. He responded saying he'd prefer we don't. "We try our best to seem politically agnostic...I'd rather stay off the radar of the nut jobs." I responded with "Gotcha," but I felt betrayed by his unwillingness to take this small stand.

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In both of these examples, the upcoming election incites family tension--even when we (basically) agree. Many families feel such fissures break into crevasses, polarizing dear ones, freezing out once-warm relationships. 

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I'm thinking back to learning about the Civil War in Mrs. Housman's room. "Brothers fighting against brothers" was a possibility my fifth-grade brain could not accept. I could not mesh war with family into a cohesive narrative.

I lived another 55 years before I began to see the hairline cracks.

Enough.
Be well.
Write.

Allison

On Staying Above the Fray

I've taught George Orwell's Animal Farm to freshmen for the past several years. If you haven't read it recently, it deserves a re-read. As an allegory for the Russian Revolution and Stalin's rise, the story is unflinching in showing how those in power, repeating lies and hoarding resources, bring the masses into submission.

There is complicity enough to go around (the church, the press, the enablers, the "allies") as the pigs in power benefit from the other animals' loss of freedoms. 

But the character I've been thinking about today is Benjamin, the donkey.

Benjamin is an aloof, crotchety beast. He can read, a sign of his intelligence, but he doesn't use this trait as leadership or speak out against what he clearly sees unfolding. Instead, he says "Donkeys live a long time. You've never seen a dead donkey." His cynicism holds him above the fray, where he seems unfazed by the crumbling hope of prosperity for all.

Until. 

Until the climax of the book, when Benjamin's best friend Boxer, the hardest working plowhorse on the farm, is sold to the knacker. As the rendering truck rumbles down the road, Benjamin roars to life, chasing after the knacker and shouting to the other animals: "Fools! Fools! Do you not see what is written on the side of that van?" (It says "Horse Slaughterer and Glue Boiler," although the pigs had told the animals it was an ambulance taking Boxer to the hospital.)

Benjamin's belated spur to action cannot save Boxer. While he rails against the "dumb brutes" who failed to realize what was happening, he himself is not without blame. His failure to speak out, to act, or to use his years of wisdom to speak against tyranny makes him a silent accomplice to the fall of Animal Farm.

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Whew. I didn't mean to rehash the whole book. But I understand Benjamin. He wants to stay above the fray. He wants to ignore the pettiness of politics. To keep his hooves clean, so to speak.

Over the past months and years, I've seen good-hearted people hover above the squalor of political squabbling. Who can blame them? Paying attention is exhausting. And expressing an opinion in this current climate veritably invites a vitriolic response. I myself have deleted social media posts after finding myself on the receiving end of incredibly hateful insults ("Menopause got that ghoul good" one man said when I posted in support of women's reproductive healthcare. It was almost funny, but mostly just cruel, especially if you know menopause "got me" during my breast cancer treatments at age 45.)

So I understand Benjamin's desire to stay quiet. Stay cynical. Stay aloof. It's easier that way.

Until it isn't.

Enough.
Be well.
Write.

Allison

From Nobelprize.org